


The Stamp of Truth

by InappropriateCabbage



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jeffrey Dean Morgan - Freeform, Loss of Virginity, One Shot, Praise Kink, Smut, Swearing, Teacher-Student Relationship, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 23:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20461457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InappropriateCabbage/pseuds/InappropriateCabbage
Summary: It’s midway through your senior year in high school and you still haven’t made any friends, nor are you likely to. You’re just about as unpopular as it gets, and shy to boot. So, to pass your time and fill the void, you enjoy writing down your explicit fantasies about your English teacher, Mr. Crouse, in a special notebook. It just so happens that this invaluable notebook has found its way into his possession, and he’s very intent on keeping you in detention after hours.





	The Stamp of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request I got on Tumblr (feel free to check me out under the same name.) Just for clarification: I don't condone this kind of relationship in real life. This is just a harmless bit of fantasy. However, I did take the precaution of making the reader legal age. That being said, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

When the bell for the end of class rang, the whole room emptied in a flurry of screeching chairs and hurried footsteps. On Fridays, the canteen did fries - something to do with their stupid new health policy that they can only be served once a week – and the queue was always massive, so everybody rushes to get to the line first.

As you followed the flow of people to file out of the English room, a group of guys pushed in and bashed into you, knocking you back against the teacher’s desk, which sent a pile of his papers flying. Mr. Crouse paused cleaning the blackboard at the commotion. They paid you no attention and continued to laugh moronically as they pushed their way out into the corridor.

“Urgh, jeez…” you sighed quietly to yourself, kneeling down and beginning to pick up all the papers scattered across the checkered floor.

“It’s cool, I’ve got it.” Mr. Crouse crouched down beside you and began picking up the papers. You were suddenly aware of your heart thumping in your chest. He was close enough that you could actually see how long his eyelashes were…

Your breath hitched in your throat a little, your cheeks starting to fill with colour as your eyes wandered over his features. You loved the way his lightly tousled hair came back off of his face, and the way his glasses didn’t detract from his natural attractiveness, but rather enhanced it – or so you thought. And the way his beard way greying before the rest of his hair flipped some kind of switch inside you that you couldn’t explain. Your eyes trailed down his neck as it disappeared into his shirt collar, and you subconsciously bit your lip. You’d never wanted to kiss someone’s neck more than his. You internally sighed, almost allowing it to slip out. He really was perfect. You lightly coughed to clear your throat, continuing to pick up the papers.

“No, it’s okay, sir. I knocked them,” you said, resignedly. Mr. Crouse scoffed loudly.

“Only 'cause those jerks pushed you. You think I don’t see everything that goes on in my classroom?” He shot you a coquettish smile that made your heart momentarily stop. When you regained your composure, you smiled to yourself, savouring how candid he always was with you. It certainly made writing about him easier, because you seemed to know the real him. Both of you had subconsciously slowed down the pace that you were picking up the papers. “I hope you don’t mind me not interfering.” His tone became fractionally sterner. “It’s not that I don’t care, I just thought it would only make things…_worse_ for you.”

“No - no, you’re right, Mr. Crouse. It would’ve. I appreciate it,” you said quietly, nodding. Realising that there was only one piece of paper left to pick up made your heart sink a little. It was over so quickly. Biting the bullet, you snatched it up and handed him the pile, before standing up, brushing off your skirt, and hurriedly putting your satchel on your shoulder. It was always so full that it hardly closed. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, sir,” you said with a small wave, hastily leaving the classroom. You didn’t want to linger and make anyone suspicious.

Mr. Crouse was left crouched on the floor with his hand in mid-wave – you had left so quickly that you hadn’t seen. As he sat there puzzling to himself, he caught sight of the edge of a book on the floor under his desk. Sighing, he laid down on the cold tiles and reached under, wondering which student had left their copy of 'Atonement’ or 'Fahrenheit 451’ on the floor. When he pulled it out, the book was relatively thin, with a solid black cover – not a set text. As he flicked through it to find a name, he found the text handwritten. It was a notebook, and he recognised your handwriting immediately.

_Must have fallen out of her bag. She can never get that thing close properly,_ he chuckled to himself in his head. _I’ll give it to her tomorrow._

Just as Mr. Crouse was closing the book, his eyes caught sight of a word. He paused, unsure if he’d read it correctly. A light frown creased his brow as he reopened the book and read over the sentence.

_His finger slips tantalisingly through my wet cunt._

No, he’d _definitely_ read it correctly. Mr. Crouse rose from the floor, put the pile of work in his desk, and sat down in his chair, flicking through the notebook, only to find that it was full of filthy fantasies. As he read, he could feel the prickling heat spreading around his body as he became aware of himself getting harder.

_She certainly has a way with words,_ he thought to himself, readjusting his glasses. He coughed, feeling a little guilty as he read, but ardently desiring more. The fact that it was you who’d written it seemed only to make it more appealing. As he turned the page, he froze.

_“Jason!” I cry out, as his forceful thrusts send another orgasm shuddering through my body._

He sat and stared at his name, wide-eyed for a moment, his finger resting thoughtfully over his lip while his erection twitched inside his trousers.

* * *

It was just after the end of school bell when the announcement came over the intercom.

_“Y/F/N to see Mr. Crouse for detention. Please proceed to his office at once. That’s Y/F/N to see Mr. Crouse for detention, immediately.”_

You frowned to yourself. Detention? You never got detention. Well, not from Mr. Crouse, at least. For climbing the trees at the back of the school grounds in order to be alone? Sure. For jumping the perimeter fence for a shorter way to the bus stop? Many times. Even for occasionally wearing trousers when the dress code clearly stated that girls were to wear skirts - but never for Mr. Crouse.

And it came at just the wrong time. During lunch, you’d realised that your notebook was missing. The one that, if anyone found out about it, could mean a whole lot of trouble for you _and_ Mr. Crouse, and a life of even fierier hell amongst your dear student comrades for the next five months. Your head had been running in circles thinking about where you could have dropped, and you still hadn’t found it. You’d searched the toilets, the lunch hall, your homeroom - even Lost Property, hoping somebody would have handed it in without looking too closely at it. But you’d found nothing.

The pit in your stomach burned as you made your way through the empty corridors to Mr. Crouse’s room, wondering what on earth it could be about, while simultaneously worrying about the missing notebook. You flicked through different unlikely possibilities for the reason for your detention like portable flashcards on a binding ring.

When you reached his door, you stopped and held your breath before rapping your knuckles against the glass window panel. You waited the customary three seconds, then pushed open the door and entered. You’d seen him angry with other people, but had never felt the heat of it yourself, and quite frankly, you didn’t want to. It was terrifying. You felt like a timid herbivore entering an unknown cave – inside could be a grizzly. You just didn’t know.

The room was already prepared for the weekend – the windows locked, all the shutter blinds closed, and each chair neatly tucked under its table. Mr. Crouse sat behind his desk, his finger resting over his lip as he looked blankly down at the desk in front of him. He didn’t seem to acknowledge your presence, but you knew he’d seen you. You swallowed hard and placed your satchel down on the floor, keeping your distance. Finally, he spoke.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked flatly. You shook your head.

“No, sir.” He paused.

“I want to talk to you about 'Atonement’,” he said, suddenly. You frowned.

“Our set text?” you queried. He nodded.

“Specifically the Library Scene.” Your body shivered at the way he said it. The Library Scene, as dubbed by every student of English literature, was named so ambiguously because it was exactly the opposite. Everybody knows exactly what it is, and how highly sexual it is in nature. You perched on a random desk in the front row in an attempt to seem more relaxed, when you really had no idea what was going on.

“Okay…” you said timidly. Mr. Crouse continued like he was talking in front of an entire class, except…something seemed off.

“I think we can all agree that McEwan’s use of style and technique in this passage makes for a very visceral and erotic scene – not because he writes the perfect, idyllic love-making scene, but rather entirely the _opposite_. It’s full of all the awkwardness and humorous accidents that real life and _real sex _is full of. It clearly shows the inexperience of the lovers as characters that he’s created, but in doing so, it also exhibits the experience of himself – the author. McEwan uses his knowledge of _real life_ in order to resonate with the reader, which is what makes this unbelievable moment in this unbelievable story seem, in actual fact, so utterly believable.”

You swallowed hard, every syllable he uttered making you wetter. You could have almost drooled over how he said the word 'erotic’. But it didn’t matter what he said – he could have read the phone directory and you’d still have been unravelling from his voice. He had stood up and been pacing in front of the blackboard.

“Why are you….” You swallowed your saliva to moisten your throat. “Why are you telling me this, sir?” you asked feebly.

He looked at you for the first time since you’d entered the room. You could feel yourself pulsing against the desk. He slowly took off his glasses and put them aside before he put up a finger, signalling that he was about to explain.

“I’m telling you this because I want to help critique your own writing,” he said. He sounded a little strange – like…well. You didn’t know what, but _almost_ frustrated. You frowned.

“My own writing?”

Mr. Crouse picked up a book from his desk and held it up. A sudden wave of relief washed over you as you realised that it was your notebook. You rushed over to him and clasped the book, holding it close to your chest. But as you looked up at him, the smile fell from your face and your stomach dropped as the reality dawned on you: he had read the book. You felt your knees give way beneath you and reached out for the desk to stop yourself sinking to the floor. Mr. Crouse seemed unfazed.

“You see,” he continued. “You have a gift with your writing. You really do. Erotica is a damn hard genre to write successfully, and I can say from personal experience that your writing has the_…desired effect_. However–” He leaned in close to you, his finger gently under your chin– “It lacks just one thing.”

Your mind was swimming, unable to decipher what the hell was going on. Looking so closely into his eyes was strangely hypnotic.

“W-what’s that?” you asked, like a dunce. He grinned in a way that you’d never seen before – a way that sent a tingle right down to your core.

“The stamp of truth.”

As he uttered the last word, he lowered his head, passionately taking your lips with his. It took you a few seconds to comprehend that it was actually happening. You felt like you were melting into his touch. Unable to think coherently, you acted on instinct, allowing him into your mouth as your eyes fluttered shut. You were soon enraptured, not even noticing as you dropped the notebook to free your hands, as you both began searching and exploring the other’s body.

Mr. Crouse gently backed you against his desk, his hands finding their way under your skirt and pulling you into him. The feeling of his fingers on your skin fuelled your desire. As your hips tilted into him, you could feel how hard he was against your abdomen. The room was filled with the sound of heavy breathing and fabric-on-fabric, the prickling sensation of his beard against your cheeks strangely erotic. Eventually, he broke the kiss, continuing only to nip your lower lip.

“It was really only one thing that gave your lack of experience away,” he continued, pulling open your collar as he sustained his sucking on your lip. Your fingers ran through his hair.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, out of breath and in a confident daze. Mr. Crouse began kissing your neck. “What was that?” You could feel his lips grinning against your skin.

“If I was fucking you that well, you wouldn’t be calling me by my first name…” His hand came up around your neck as he kissed you, the sensation of his fingers around your throat exciting you further. “You’d be calling me _'daddy’_.”

He kissed you forcefully as he took hold of your legs and lifted you up onto the desk. You had to admit that calling him that had never occurred to you before, but just the sound of him using it to describe himself made you squirm as your pussy was pumped so full of juices that it began to leak down your leg. You could no longer hold back the needful moans that he was pulling from your lips as he led the way. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he groped your breast with his free hand.

“You want to call me 'daddy’?” he breathed between kisses. Your cunt ached harder with each iteration of the word. “You want daddy to make you feel good like in your stories?”

“Yes, please,” you whined into him, your hips rolling into his crotch. Smiling almost innocently, he laid you down on your back and began fingering your slit through your panties. As he pressed between your folds, your juices easily soaked through onto his fingers.

“You’re so wet for daddy,” he said softly, starting to thumb your clitoris through the fabric.

The sensation was so sudden and so intense that it took you by surprise, your knee jerking up into his nose in reflex. Mr. Crouse took a small step back, clutching his nose. As soon as it happened, you sat up on your elbows in concern.

“Oh no – I-I’m sorry, I didn't–” you stuttered quietly. Mr. Crouse looked over at you and smiled, gently easing you back down onto the desk.

“It’s all right, princess. You didn’t mean to,” he chuckled. “Daddy’s okay,” he cooed, before bending down and kissing your pussy through your panties. You mewled beneath him, the heat of the embarrassment at kneeing him in the face still flushing your cheeks, though no-one would have been any the wiser, for the entirely different glow overcoming you.

He stood back and began unbuckling his belt, the clinking of the buckle stroking your anticipation. You strained your neck to watch as he pulled out his throbbing cock from its fabric prison. He dove into his back pocket and tore open what you assumed to be a condom, before you felt the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You bit your lip in expectation.

After devouring the contents of the notebook in his lunchtime, Mr. Crouse had been out of sorts all day. The images the notebook captured were continually brought to life in his own equally lecherous mind, and it had been impossible not to imagine himself bending you over his desk and thrusting himself inside you, making you his. He’d had a constant erection, which he’d hidden by mostly sitting down for his lessons, which he rarely ever did, and was continually distracted with the thought of how you’d look as you came on his cock. He was aching to know what your walls felt like around his length. By last period, it was all he could think of.

He picked up your legs and rested your ankles over his shoulders, nicely exposing you for him. Sliding your panties to one side, Jason eased his hips forwards, allowing the first few inches of his cock inside you. He rocked back and forth, enjoying watching your face contort in pleasure from a mere fraction of his size. The way he stretched and filled your tight, virgin hole was painful at first, but he was so gentle and experienced that it soon dissolved into an unrelenting pleasure that demanded your entire mind and body. It wasn’t long before he was pressing most of himself inside you, frowning from how tightly your walls clung to him. He soon built up a pace that sent your senses wild. Your hands searched desperately for the edge of the desk in order to cling to it, while you felt your stomach begin to clench and coil. His thrusts became harder and faster as he pounded into you, the desk shaking beneath you.

“Fuck, princess, you’re so tight…” he grunted, holding onto your hips and bringing you back onto him with every thrust. “You feel so good,” he mumbled.

A surreal fire ignited inside you at his praise as he relentlessly thrust into you. Every insertion brought you closer to your climax.

“You like daddy’s cock? Daddy’s cock make you feel good?” he growled. You moaned a response as coherently as you could manage as your head grew deliriously fuzzy.

Within minutes, your body was mere thrusts away from euphoric collapse. Feeling your walls apprehensively contacting, Mr. Crouse turned his head and planted a tender kiss on the inside of your knee.

“Good girl,” he muttered, into your skin. His kiss soon turned into sucking, a hickey forming on the inside of your leg. “You’ve been a good girl, and good girls get to cum for daddy.”

And that was all it took for your body to give in. Another thrust and you came undone beneath him. As your climax winded you, you called out the same nickname he declared you would. He muffled your moan by placing his thumb inside your mouth, which you eagerly sucked on as your body spasmed uncontrollably, the waves of ecstasy rocking through you as your walls contracted around his length. Mr. Crouse continued to chase his release, thrusting uncontrollably into you, and following soon after, accompanying the filling of the condom with a lewd moan of your name.

It took you both a few minutes to recover, your breath rasping as the beads of sweat dripped from your bodies. Mr. Crouse got up faster than you, your head still thick and trying to comprehend the events that had happened. He removed the condom and put it in the bin, then proceeded to do up his trousers. He then sat back in his chair, enjoying the view of you collapsed on the table.

When you eventually felt strong enough to get up, you rose to a smug grin plastered across his face as he casually cleaned the lenses in his glasses. You fought the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth and looked away. Mr. Crouse put on his glasses and looked at you so deeply for a moment, that it took your breath away.

Catching sight of something out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Crouse leant forwards in his chair and gently took your lower leg into his grasp. He carefully inspected the little bruises and grazes on your shins, before looking up at you, a little concerned.

“Where’d you get these?” he asked.

“Oh, those,” you said casually. “Just climbing the trees out back.” Mr. Crouse nodded, his expression relaxing a little at your response. He didn’t have to say, but you knew he was worried they might have been from the other students.

“The ones that are out of bounds to students?” He cocked his eyebrow at you. You fidgeted a little.

“Yep. Those’d be the ones,” you said awkwardly. “…And from, you know, jumping the perimeter fence every now and then…” You coughed.

A short, blunt laugh escaped his lips, his frown curling into a small smile as the fading light danced in his eyes. You sat there for a moment, enraptured by each other’s gazes, before Mr. Crouse bent down and gently kissed the broken skin, rubbing them over with his thumb.

At that moment, your heart throbbed in your chest, taking you by surprise.

* * *

Somehow, you managed to tear yourself away from the confines of the classroom that night, with the infamous notebook safely stashed away in your satchel, and still in time to catch a late bus home.

On Monday morning, when you stepped into English, your secret was strangely exhilarating - swelling and catching fire in your chest. You could sense that Mr. Crouse felt the same, though he hardly showed it for more than a second at a time. As he taught at the front of the class, everything he said, every word that passed his lips, felt like it would somehow allow the entire class to catch on. But how could it? You ignored the feeling. When he removed his glasses, exhibiting the plaster stuck across the bridge of his nose, you had to bite your lip to stop yourself giggling.

As the bell sounded and the room began to empty for recess, Mr. Crouse called out to you.

“Y/N, can I see you for a minute?”

You left the line leading out into the corridor to stand next to his desk, restraining the smile that so desperately wanted to spread across your face.

“Yes, Mr. Crouse?” you said coyly. He was fiddling with the cap of his pen, waiting for the sea of people to depart.

“I take it you’ve thought about what we talked about in detention on Friday?” His voice was deliciously laced with innuendo, but not enough to rouse any eavesdropper’s suspicions. You coughed lightly.

“Yeah, I have,” you replied, fingering the frayed satchel strap.

“And?”

“I found it…_enlightening_.” The tonal quality of his eyes shifted. Ironically, they seemed darker. You spoke slowly so that he understood every syllable. “I think that I understand what you were saying, but….you might have to _go over it_ a few times for me to fully grasp the idea….”

As the last few students disappeared into the corridor in a cacophonous gaggle, Mr. Crouse capped the pen and dropped it on the desk. He leaned back in his chair, removed his glasses, and absently took the frame in his mouth as his eyes locked with yours. You swallowed hard as your core acknowledged the seductive nature of his gaze.

For a moment, you had glazed over the plaster on his nose, forgetting its existence, but as your eyes refocused on it, you felt a humorous spasm rising in your chest. You fought desperately to hold it down, but found that you couldn’t any longer. A short, amused splutter escaped your mouth as you loosely gestured to your nose. Mr. Crouse raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” he joked, pointing to his own nose. His eyes flitted to the doorway, and then back to you, before slightly lowering his voice. “You’re the one who did this,” he chuckled, getting up from his seat, closing the door, and shutting the blind for some privacy. Your shoulders rose and fell as you giggled silently to yourself. “Yeah, all right,” he breathed, unable to stop himself from grinning. He sat back down, and genuine concern came back into his voice. “How’s yours?”

He meant the hickey in your leg.

“Oh, not so bad,” you shrugged, awkwardly twisting your leg for him to see. “With all the bruises I get, no-one’ll notice.”

“And the others?” he asked softly, his fingertips just grazing your shin, while his eyes stayed transfixed on yours. He was referring to the other cuts and bruises on your shins.

“They’re healing too.” There was a brief silence, infused with sexual tension, as you both apparently contemplated the same thing.

“Detention again this Friday?” he asked brazenly, his tongue running seductively over his bottom lip. Your fingers excitedly intertwined with each other as you fought the urge to straddle him right then and there.

“Absolutely, Mr. Crouse.” You grinned, readjusting your bag strap, and headed for the door. With your fingers resting on the doorknob, you looked back over your shoulder at him. “I look forward to being able to add _the stamp of truth_ to _every_ story I’ve written in that notebook.”


End file.
